Epidemics were rarer in Loegrion than other parts of the Empire. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that Loegrion was constantly fighting the Rot-epidemic and as a result, had eliminated a lot of the things that caused disease on the mainland. Anyone emptying their chamberpot onto a Loegrian street better be ready for the mob to tear down their doors. Gutters here were for rainwater and nothing else. Sewers took a lot of the waste away, and midnight men collected what wasn’t transportable by water, to be burned outside the city. Even small villages always had someone taking the wastes away, to burn them or bury them deep in the ground.

Thoko loved that about the country, even though the system was far from perfect—cities grew faster above ground than below, sewers got clogged, gutters got blocked, horse excrement collected especially on busy streets. But it was still much better than large parts of the Empire, where poorer streets often had no waste collection at all.

It was still terrifying to see the army of midnight men descend on the Grande Gallerie now, their faces covered, each carrying a couple of buckets in their hands. Even that wasn’t enough. The sick—were very sick.

Thoko had seen the Cholera go through a city before. This was worse, because what the sick were expelling from their bodies on both ends wasn’t just vomit and diarrhoea—though there was plenty of both. It was blood, too. As if the mushrooms had cut them open from the inside, as if they had eaten razor blades, not poison.

Nathan was holding Imani’s convulsing body. Andrew was with Charlene and her mother; Charlene’s teenage brother had fled. Thoko herself was holding the head of an elderly lady whose relatives hadn’t been able to stomach the flood of blood and excrement. Thoko resented them for leaving alone a woman who was too weak to even lean her head over the edge of the bed on her own.

Thoko guided her so she wouldn’t soil herself completely, then offered the stranger some of the sweet and salty tea the doctors were cooking up by the barrel. A hand fluttered against her knee in response, the only thanks the old lady managed to give.

Prince George stood in the middle of all that misery, breathing flatly and through his mouth, fingers of one hand cramped into his mother’s fur. But he didn’t look away until Picot came in to drag him off. Lane tagged along with them, avoiding Thoko’s glare.

They shouldn’t have dragged the boy into all this.

A helper placed more tea next to Thoko’s seat. The servant looked just as tired as THoko felt. About half of last night’s party guests were suffering, some more, some less. Even those who weren’t throwing up blood were curling in on themselves with pain.

“A few more hours,” Thoko whispered when her own charge sobbed with another cramp.

It was scant comfort. The pain might subside in a few hours, but the dying hadn’t even started yet. Which wasn’t to say there had been no deaths: Not every body could take the strain, despite the doctor’s best efforts to replace what the patients kept losing.

The healers supported them as much as they could, but they couldn’t purge the poison. All they could do was strengthen their patient’s overall constitution, and that was limited especially in the elderly.

Some of the sick had taken one look at Morgulon, and decided to take their own life before anyone could even ask them if they wanted to try their luck at the coin toss.

Thoko glanced over to where the she-wolf was stretched out in the middle of the room, guarding the cubs. Officially, Nathan had taken her to the Gallerie to ensure the Rot didn’t wake from all the magic and blood. Why she had really decided to come, Thoko wasn’t sure. She had a suspicion, though: The healers kept drifting over to the family with their own cups of strong tea, forgoing the chairs and couches servants had dragged in for them to rest on in favour of standing around the blankets where the baby werewolves tumbled over each other.

Did they even notice that they did it? Had Greg noticed? Or Lane? Thoko couldn’t help but wonder how clearly they were thinking right now. Greg had been sitting at Imani’s bed, face buried in his hands, unmoving for a couple of hours now, while Lane was fully focused on Picot and whatever he was cooking up now.

Neither one had asked Morgulon if she could help, had they?

Thoko rubbed her chin. Her father had always said a healer’s limit was his magic. Surely, having a living source of magic within the room would change things?

She offered more tea to the old lady. In a few hours, everything would calm down, right? She’d bring the matter up then.

***

Just as Thoko thought the worst was over, Picot and Lane returned, the prince and Annabelle in tow. There was also a man with them that Thoko didn’t recognize. A healer or a doctor, she thought. His dark robes showed the same stains as those of all the others who were fighting for their patients’ lives.

“Oh no,” whimpered the old lady next to Thoko. It was probably a good thing that she had breath to spare to speak at all, but the sentiment appeared to be shared around the Gallerie. People stared at the man as if they expected him to sprout a second head.

“Lords and Ladies,” Lane spoke into the sudden hush, “it is with great sadness that I have to inform you of the death of Duke Desmarais, as confirmed by his personal physician.”

The stranger worried his hands, inclining his head. “His heart gave out.”

Thoko had to strain to hear the words.

“Despite my best efforts—the healer’s and nurses’ best efforts… He was not as fit as he may have appeared. I’m sorry. His heart gave out. I need to get back to Duke Stuard now.”

The doctor ducked his head again and hurried away, leaving the people in shock. Even Thoko felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under her feet, and she had barely known the old viceroy.

But he had been a fixture, in charge ever since she had arrived on Loegrian soil. An ally, recently. Someone who had helped Greg with the palace politics, accepted him as human, which said a lot about him, Thoko thought.

And now he was dead.

If David didn’t make it back from Port Neaf, who was going to manage Duke Stuard then?

And if Duke Stuard didn’t make it—would they even continue the fight against the Valoise at all? Was there anyone else for the nobility of Loegrion to rally around? Would the people of Loegrion continue without them?

But a public uprising seemed unlikely, without someone to lead it.

They really needed David to come back.

***

Suddenly, it felt like they were losing.

Lane stood ramrod straight, head held high. People were staring at her, servants and nobles alike. The prince too. And no wonder.

There was still no news from Port Neaf. They should have heard something by now, right? Even if this morning’s attack had failed—they should have gotten the news.

And half their leadership was dead.

“I think I need to sit down,” the Marques said softly next to her.

“I’m sure there’s a stool somewhere around here,” Lane replied.

The man drove her mad. All the more so because she had no proof of his treason. Just a bit of strange timing, a few coincidences. She couldn’t even figure out what he was playing at by dragging the prince here.

“You’re not going to rest?” Picot asked.

“I’ll do a round of the room first. My prince, perhaps you would like to return to your father’s side?”

Prince George nodded silently. He hadn’t let go of Annabelle all day. Lane was glad to see him walk away alone, without Picot. Even though the Marquess was sure to bother the boy soon.

Picot hid a yawn in his hand. “I see you have your fiance’s stamina,” he said. “That’s important in a marriage.”

Then he coughed. “My apologies, Lady deLande. That came out differently than it was intended.”

Of course.

“I believe we are all quite tired, Marques Picot. If you will excuse me.”

Lane dearly wished Theresa was here, and on the other hand, was glad that she wasn’t amongst the many sick and dying. It was just that her friend was so much better at this sort of thing. Caring. Giving reassurance, a spark of hope. Even if it meant lying through her teeth.

David would be back. Even if the treachery reached all the way to Port Neaf—David would make it back. There was no doubt in her head he would make it back.

That was the lie she kept repeating, praying that she didn’t sound like some love-sick fool. Praying that they believed her, that they wouldn’t just give up.

Was that what Picot wanted? That Loegrion just surrendered?

No doubt, if the Roy Solei offered them a hundred healers from Rambouillet in return for their loyalty, half the aristocrats here would grovel all the way to the Imperial Throne to hand over the werewolves and beg for forgiveness.

Damn cowards.

But Lane couldn’t let that sentiment creep into her voice. She had to be the nice one, the caring one. Their next possible queen. If Duke Stuard didn’t make it…

It said a lot about the state her fellow nobles were in that she was the only one making a bid for power right now. It meant that she had to be far more subtle about it than she would have otherwise. Picot, after bringing the prince here, had made a show of not grabbing power. It wouldn’t do for her to look—callous—next to him.

By the time Lane ended her round at Imani’s side, dusk was falling again, and she really, really wanted to get to sleep. She almost keeled over when Morgulon rammed her head into her side. Thoko and all the remaining Feleke’s were gathered around, too, and Bishop Larssen had collapsed in a chair.

Imani, at least, looked better than she had all day.

When she brought that up, His Excellency blew a strand of hair out of his face and gave her a tired look.

“Don’t let it fool you,” he said. “No patient is out of the woods yet. At the risk of sounding heartless, this was the easy phase. The phase during which doctors can help somewhat. We will see the symptoms ease for a few hours, possibly a couple of days, but that will be a deceit. Four to five days after the consumption, the reaping will start in earnest.”

“When will we know if a patient will survive?” Lane asked.

Bishop Larssen shrugged. “Ten days, milady. Now is the time to rest.”

“Maybe you should take your own advice, Monseigneur,” Andrew said. “Neither of us can do what you can do.”

“I would,” Bishop Larssen replied, “but then I’d have to move. Doesn’t seem worth the effort.”

“So does it help?” Thoko asked. “To sit next to a living source of magic? I noticed how you and the other healers kept drifting over all day.”

Lane hadn’t noticed that, and she wanted to kick herself for missing it. But then, so had the Felekes, apparently. Morgulon promptly curled up, hiding her nose under her tail, as if she could hide, in the middle of the Grande Gallerie.

His Excellency looked blankly at Thoko, then glanced at Morgulon. “It is quite pleasant to sit next to her,” he said slowly. “I do feel refreshed already. It’s as if she is giving off magic? Except without the Rot?”

He looked at Lane then, Lord Feleke, searching. It was a scant comfort to Lane that the baron looked like he wanted to kick himself, too.

“Wait, is she?” the bishop asked.

“She might be,” Lane said. “Thoko wasn’t joking about the ‘living sources of magic’ part.”

“Never heard about them healing,” Nathan added, “but some of them do have other magical skills. Morgulon can turn invisible.”

“And you did not see fit to share that?” Larssen asked, looking insulted. “Sources of magic are precisely what we need! Even if it’s just a weak effect… If we had a werewolf sitting at every sickbed…”

Lane was about to point out that Morgulon was stronger than the average werewolf, and that they didn’t have nearly enough Elders, when Greg suddenly changed the topic: “Monseigneur, why were you at the casino?”

Larssen turned to him, looking annoyed. “What casino? And how is that relevant right now?”

“The one where I met you, and Lords Picot, Pettau and Carter,” Greg said. “And that general, never got his name. Please, Monseigneur.”

Larssen sighed but answered: “I’m a regular there. Why? What’s this about?”

Greg glanced at Morgulon. Lane was fairly sure they conferred in silence, then Greg asked: “So you didn’t see the spy that I had followed all the way from the palace to that place? The spy who had searched my brother’s—now Lady deLande’s—office? That’s why I was at the casino, while there were still protests demanding every werewolf’s death. I followed him all the way to the doors.”

“What?”

“I lost him at the entrance of the casino, and by the time I made it past the doormen, he was gone. Morgulon and I followed his trail all the way to his home, where someone had hung him from the rafters. We found a bunch of contacts, but no hint of his employer. Morgulon thinks you genuinely tried to help my mother. So I’m no longer convinced it was you. But why were you there, Monseigneur?”

Greg’s perfectly calm, even tired, delivery of the question made Lane’s hair stand on edge. Larssen appeared to choke on his own voice. Finally, he managed: “There never was a bet, was there?”

“No, there was no bet.”

“But there was—a spy. Someone searched—and then you followed them—And you thought I would…”

Larssen sighed again. “But why wouldn’t you? Yes, I think I know who you mean. A man, wasn’t it? In a dark cloak? Somewhat heavy-set fellow?”

Greg nodded. “Did he talk to anyone?”

Larssen hesitated, rubbing his eyes. “Picot,” he said, softly. “And Pettau. I was at the bar, so I don’t know about Carter. General Sif was getting drinks with me.”

“You seemed to know them all quite well.”

His Excellency shrugged. “I know General Sif quite well. We fought together in Fylke. You see, he was the one who introduced me to that place, back when I first, well, tired of battle. It was a good place to talk candidly about my thoughts. Lords Picot and Pettau had been showing up for years, too, but I wouldn’t have called them regulars until a few months ago, when Lord Carter joined them.”

“Monseigneur, would that be right around the time the rumours picked up that David cheated in the race for my favour?” Lane asked.

“I—never paid attention to those rumours,” he said. “But it might just have been that time.”

“So. Picot. Raise your hand if you’re surprised,” Nathan growled.

Nobody moved. Lane felt her stomach clench, though. On the one side, two marquesses, and a count—on the other side, her and a werewolf. And possibly Baron Feleke, though Lane wasn’t sure if she should ask him to leave his wife’s side at this moment.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Nathan added. “Let’s find the bastards and poke some holes into them.”

He sat up and reached for the hilt of his sword, but his father held out a hand.

“Patience, Nathan. We have no proof, as suspicious as the timing is.” Lord Feleke’s eyes were black steel. “Go to Windish, Nathan. Put together the strongest group of werewolves you can. Not just Pierre, but people who can fight. Message First Camp, and if Captain Rust thinks the situation safe, call in Laurent. Morgulon, if you would follow Bishop Larssen for now? I will talk to Lord Mire. We need guards on all the healers. If the werewolves can truly help them in their task, the traitors might target them next. Lady deLande—”

“I will challenge Picot when the time comes.” Lane hoped she sounded confident when she said that. How was she going to do that?

“Thank you,” Lord Feleke said. “I would advise you find some rest now. And perhaps make sure the prince gets some, too? Uninterrupted?”

“I’ll leave that part to Annabelle,” Lane said, smiling grimly. “But I’ll find him a room.”

And maybe she would find a proof, too, with Morgulon’s help. But she wasn’t going to speak about that in front of Larssen.

She was just about to get up, when Greg once again turned to Bishop Larssen: “Monseigneur? The four days you mentioned. How—exact—is that?”

“Not particularly. And I’m far from an expert on deathcap poisoning. The doctors said it would typically be four to ten days after the ingestion for the most deaths to occur.”

“That’s full moon,” Greg said, eyes fixed on Morgulon. “Even if Nathan gets us a pack, we might be limited in the help we can give during those nights. But the timing might save some people, too. Maybe we should ask who would consider getting bitten.”

Then he blinked and glared at Morgulon, who swished her tail.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Imani rasped. “Would be nice, holding the cubs without worry.”

“Let’s wait just a bit longer, dear,” Bram said quickly, leaning forwards to caress her cheek.

“By all means, though, if the bite can improve the odds, better ask people now,” Larssen said. “They might not be able to tell you soon.”

“I’ll—” Nathan started, but Andrew reached out.

“Go to Windish, Nathan. Get us a pack. I’ll check on Charlene, spread the word.”

He looked around. “If there's any news from David, somebody let me know.”

“Me too, please,” Lane said.